“Oh,
that guy?Well, I sorta told you he asked for
my autograph, but he actually asked me for a dollar to buy some coffee.”

“Where can
you buy coffee for a dollar?I think
even 7-11 charges a buck fifty.”

“That’s
beside the point.The point is, he was
homeless, he asked for money, and so I embellished the interaction a little bit
and told you later that he asked for my autograph.”

“See?There’s that lying thing again.You tell lies on your blog, and then you tell
me lies about people asking for your autograph.If you needed something interesting to write about, why not tell about
how cute Short looked for the Alice in
Wonderland ballet all dressed up in his little suit jacket and how proud he
was and kept saying he looked like me when I am going to work and you could
also write about how Tall tore off his uncomfortable dressy clothes layer by
layer starting in the car before we even got there?Now that
is funny.”

“How is that
funny?And who is writing this
blog?If you want to write your kooky
stories, you are welcome to start your own
blog.”

“Maybe I
will.I’ll call it ‘The Real Truth, Nothing But the Truth’ and
I’ll have a lot of readers, readers who don’t want to be lied to for the sake
of entertainment or a cheap laugh.”

“You know
what, Sweetie?You are so overreacting.Blogs are made of letters and words and
stories, some true, some inflated, some squishy.I reserve the right to inject my stories with
the occasional white lie, and pepper them strategically with black and blue lies,
too.”

“What is a
black and blue lie?Like a bruise?”

“The point
is, it’s fiction.Some of it is memoir,
and some of it is make-believe-oir.My
readers can tell the difference.”

“I don’t
like it, MOV.I don’t want to lied to,
manipulated.I only like truth.”He picked up his dog-eared People magazine, and exited the room.

MOV

p.s. thank you to Haley for the idea for this (blog from husband's point of view)

Monday, January 28, 2013

We arrived early,
posed for photos, bought a candy bar.Our
velvet-cushioned seats were in the Orchestra section, mere feet from the musicians
tuning their instruments.Silk dresses,
wool suits, fur coats, cashmere sweaters with dry cleaning tags still attached—everyone
was dressed up and on best behavior.

We were at
the ballet.

Not just any
ballet, but a world-class professional performance of Alice in Wonderland, where tickets cost $100 a pop, and they don’t
even offer a discount for kids.My dad
and step-mom Nichole had generously purchased four seats for our family as our
Christmas present, part of the trend of “experience” gifts instead of adding to
our ever-expanding collection of “more things.”

(We
immediately walked into the gift shop and bought a white rabbit ornament.We needed a thing to remind us of our
experience.)

The performance
lasted three hours, and if you ask me, that was about 21 hours too few.I LOVED EVERY SECOND.The latent art major in me gobbled up the set
design like gourmet chocolate at an all-you-can-eat buffet:towers of oversized playing cards, a moving “sea,”
a garden maze in psychedelic colors, a giant video of a spinning rabbit hole.Combine this with flawless music, sublime
dancing, exquisite costumes, and colorful tissue-paper confetti falling over
the audience’s unsuspecting heads.One hundred
dollars a ticket?I think that was a
bargain.

Tall and
Short stared in awe. Even The Husband, who had
reminded me three times while driving over that he was missing a football game
on TV, seemed to be enjoying himself.I momentarily forgave him for continually pestering me before the show
started to verify if this was actually going to be an Opera.

“Because I
hate Opera, and I’ll leave,” he declared. He said the word Opera with the same contempt most people might reserve for gum on the bottom of my shoe. "Ballet," I confirmed, "not Opera."

After the
first act, I leaned in and whispered to Tall, “What did you think so far?”

“There’s more?” his voice rose in glee.

“Yes!”I smiled.“That was only the first part.There
are still two more acts.”

At the end
of the show we sprung from our seats, along with the rest of the audience, and gave the dancers a well-deserved standing ovation.We
clapped and stomped and cheered and whistled. Loudly.

And The Husband
only thoughtfootball fans get that excited.

As we drove
home, Tall and Short chattered excitedly about the performance.“Remember when the Mad Hatter started tap
dancing on the table?”, “And when the Queen took that flamingo and whacked the hedgehog?”, “And
what about that Cheshire Cat—he was my favorite!”, “Or the dancing frog!I loved him!”, “And Alice—WOW! What a great dancer!”

When we
returned home and walked in the house, Short turned to me to share one final
impression:“Mommy, I love the Opera!”

Thursday, January 24, 2013

This package
arrives in the mail yesterday, and it is not from LLBean, Amazon, etsy, Lego.com
nor any of the usual suspects.

It is from a
blogger.

I carefully open
it up and am amazed to find this incredible piece of art, very David Hockney-esque
(you know, if David Hockney made ocean collages instead of roads and deserts
and swimming pools), and I gasp.

Literally,
gasp.Someone I have never met (and have
not sent money to) mailed me art! WOW!

Now, I must give you a bit of the backstory here. Lillian Connelly (the artist/ blogger extraordinaire in question) recently posted a very kind review of me and my writing on her blog. I sent her a thank you note. Next thing you know--voila! She sends me art!

So I immediately drove over to
the Smithsonian and of course they wanted the collage.

“Yes, absolutely, we
are very interested in it,” said the Director of Acquisitions.“It is phenomenal.”

I didn’t really
want to donate or sell it to the Smithsonian, I just wanted validation that it
was worth millions.

“Millions, without a doubt,”
chimed in the Appraiser.“You have a
very special piece on your hands.”

I nodded and turned
to leave.I was going to frame it and
hang it in my dining room, the one place my children are not allowed to kick
soccer balls.

“Where do you think
you are going?” inquired the Supervisor of Security.“You may not leave the building with that piece.”He reached over like he was going to grab it
from me.

Right then, the
Museum Curator intervened.“Don’t touch
the art!” she screeched.“Keep excess
fingerprints off of it!”

“I am taking it
home,” I clarified, “and I promise I will wear gloves at all times.”It was a lie and they knew it.

“I hate to tell you
this, Madam MOV, but we had a verbal agreement,” said the Attorney of Museumish
Affairs.

Then he pressed a button on his iPhone and a voice that sounded eerily like mine started rambling: "I have a piece of art that you might be interested in. I am considering donating it to you as a tax write-off, or (insert nervous giggle here) if you want to provide me with, say, a year's supply of Target's Ritter Dark Chocolate with Marzipan, that might be what I would consider a fair trade."

The room went silent. Just then, a uniformed guard knocked on the door. He and a helper were struggling to push a large industrial dolly with six wooden crates marked Ritter. "Your chocolate, Madam."

“A deal’s a deal,” declared
the Director of Acquisitions, a petite woman who I was liking less by the
second.“You have your preferred payment, and
now we get the art.”

Fast forward to me
sitting in my dining room gazing at the mermaid collage.I had laughed at the Smithsonian, laughed in
their faces. (Only six crates of
chocolate?That wouldn’t be enough to get
me through the week.)

MOV "Museums Of Vision"
P.S.A HUGE thank you to Lillian of It's A Dome Life for the gorgeous collage (and readers, FYI: she does sell them).
Lillian, you rock!

Sunday, January 20, 2013

You wake up
one morning and tell yourself that today is the day you will get rid of
everything you don’t need.That broken
lamp in the basement?Why are you
keeping it?It is not going to magically
repair itself.The toddler toys in the
garage?Please.Your kids are now six and nine.The books you read once and promised yourself
you would go back and read again “when you had time.”Guess what?You will never have that kind of time, and if you do, you will want to
go to the bookstore or the library and get a new book you have never read.

Yes, Inner
Feng Shui Ninja has arrived.

Ninja shows
no mercy, takes no prisoners, shoots from the hip, calls a spade a spade, and
takes the tiger by the tail.When you
hold up the half of a royal blue sweater that you started knitting in college,
she laughs so hard she snorts.Uh,
no.It’s gotta go.

Ninja goes
room by room, methodically assessing the use of each and every item.The espresso machine that you use every
day?It stays.The 12-year-old juicer that broke but you
seem to think it might still be under warranty?Buh-bye.Your younger son’s
school “art project” that he did last week?Ninja has her hand on it, but you opt for the temporary purgatory of the
front of the refrigerator instead.Ninja
is not happy, but she knows how sentimental you can be about “art.”

“I might
frame it,” you justify yourself to Ninja while trying not to sound like you are
begging.Ninja points out that you have
five large boxes full of “art” you “might frame.”You would need to buy a much bigger house to display
it all.Ninja advises you to go through it,
piece by piece.At first it’s hard, but
after a short break for chocolate chip cookies and a double espresso, it somehow
gets easier.You get it down to two
boxes (one for each child) and Ninja smiles.

Ninja likes
clean, she likes uncluttered, she is allergic to piles.She wants the excess gone, and she wants it
gone yesterday.

She has
heard all the excuses:It’s valuable,
Aunt Sally gave it to me, I might use it.Ninja shakes her no-nonsense head.The only
thing that matters to her is the final goal:a livable house.

“You can
breathe better when you have open space,” she explains slowly and loudly, like she is
talking to a deaf dog.“Trust me on
this, MOV.”

Frankly, you
don’t trust her.The last time she
showed up (three years ago), she made you get rid of some quirky 1950s
costume jewelry that you had originally bought from a garage sale and that you later saw on eBay for $600.You can’t afford those kinds of mistakes.

Ninja
nods.“I know, I know,” she says
apologetically, “It won’t happen again.Now, help me get your husband’s dusty stacks of baseball cards into the
trash, right next to those old coins.They’re out of circulation anyway.”

MOVP.S. And thank you to Shell Flower for the idea for this post (from her comment on my Martha Stewart post)!

Thursday, January 17, 2013

I brought the new kayak home and immediately put it in the kitchen. As predicted, The
Husband was not happy.

“Why would you buy a canoe?” he screeched
unsupportively.

“It’s
not a canoe, it’s a kayak,” I boasted, proud of myself for knowing the
difference.

“It’s a canoe, MOV. See the raised
seat? See the paddle you bought? In a kayak, the seat is lower and you use a
double paddle. Geesh. When were you planning to go canoeing?”

“That’s
the beauty of it—never!”

“So you bought the canoe for decoration?”

“No,
not at all. Do you ever go to REI? They have this program called R-E-Icing on
the cake, and when you buy something at full price, they will send someone over
to clean it and take care of it for you! Isn’t that great?”

“Are you kidding me with this? Who cares if
someone cleans your canoe, it doesn’t ever get dirty because you do not know
how to canoe, and plus we don’t even live near water!”

Sometimes
The Husband could be such a killjoy.

I took a deep breath and tried to explain
again, like I was telling one of my children that the moon is the opposite of
the sun. “Sweetie, they send someone over. To. Clean. The. Canoe. And the
person cleans everything around the canoe as well. It is included in the price.
Why do you think I am storing it in the kitchen?”

He
shook his head and walked out of the room, as if he didn’t approve. He will
approve once he sees how clean the REI employees get our kitchen!

The next day, the REI person showed up at 10
on the dot. “I’m here to clean your canoe,” she said brightly. “Is it in the
garage?”

I
showed her where it was, and she got right to work. Twelve hours later, the
canoe and the kitchen shined like triple flash photography of sunlight and
cubic zirconias on snow at high noon. I was impressed.

“I’ll see you next week, then?” I tried to say
it like a statement, but it came out more like a desperate question.

“Yes,”
she affirmed. Her hair had come out of its ponytail and she looked tired. “It
won’t necessarily be me though.” Then she mumbled something that sounded
suspiciously like, “if I can help it.”

The next week, exactly according to my plan, I
moved the canoe down the hall and into the bathroom. A different employee
showed up and cleaned the canoe and the bathroom. This cleaning schedule
continued for a month or so, and my entire house gleamed. I was mentally
berating myself for not finding out about REI sooner, like maybe 20 years ago.

“What
is this bill from REI?” The Husband asked in an accusatory tone when he came
home from work one evening and was sifting through the mail.

“What bill? I didn’t buy anything, besides the
kayak.”

“Canoe.”

“Yeah, whatever. Canoe.”

He
furrowed his brow 'til his faced squished up like a porcupine. A very angry
porcupine. “It looks like they’re billing us for cleaning supplies.”

“Cleaning supplies? What do you mean supplies? Why would they charge us for
that?”

“MOV,
it says right here in black and white: $1000 for cleaning supplies. Did you not
read the fine print?”

I could feel hot tears starting to plump up in
my eyeballs. Turns out, I had not read the fine print.

“MOV,
don’t worry about it,” The Husband continued semi-sympathetically. “Tell you
what: just return the canoe and then maybe we won’t have to pay it. I’ll help
you load it into the car.”

“I can’t! I haven’t used it yet!”

“Well,
that is even better because they will definitely take it back, right? They can
re-sell it to some other sucker.”

“No, you don’t understand. If I take it back
all pristine and new, they will realize that I don’t even know how to kayak!”

“Canoe.”

“That’s what I meant.”

In the
end, The Husband won out. I returned the kayak.

But I kept the paddle. I store it in my car. Maybe
the REI employees will still clean my car for me?

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

One of my
loyal readers wrote in to tell me why REI charges such insanely high
prices. He wrote, “For those prices, I’d
expect someone from the store to be coming by the house once a week to wash,
dry, and put away the clothing.”Who
knew?

This could
be the answer to all my prayers, or at least the most important ones.

I raced over
to REI like I was being chased.When I
got there, I went directly to customer service.

“Excuse me,
sir?” I whispered, breathless.“I heard
that you come over and wash people’s clothes for them?That, like, it is a service included when you
buy something?”

He guffawed.“Ha!Who told you that?”

“Well, I am
a blogger, and, uh, one of my readers mentioned …”

“You know we
only offer that on full-price items, right?Not sale.”He said the word sale like it was dirty and offensive,
like you might say dog poop on my shoe.

“Oh,” I
rallied, “I didn’t mean sale.”I matched
his tone on the word sale, but tried
to take it up a notch, like vomit on my
new suede jacket.

“Oh, okay
then.Yes.Of course we offer that service.How do you think we would get away with charging
such insanely high prices otherwise?We would
be out of business in two seconds.”

I nodded
enthusiastically.

“Okay, just
come back up after you find something, and we’ll make sure you are eligible for
the service.It’s called ‘R-E-Icing-on-the-cake.’”

Leave it to
REI to come up with something clever like that.“And by the way, what does REI stand for, anyway?I heard it stood for Recreational Equipment,
Inc?”

“That is
what we tell the public,” he leaned in conspiratorially.“It actually stands for Really Expensive
Items.”

I started
looking around for something I could afford.I found some cute mittens right away and noticed they were only
$48.If that is what it took to get an
REI employee over to my house to do laundry, so be it.

“I’d like to
buy these,” I chirped merrily, like someone who just won the jackpot in Vegas
after only playing one dollar.

“Those are
children’s mittens,” said the clerk dismissively.“Did you know that?”

Ah,
details.I put the mittens back and
looked for something else. I quickly found
a wool knit hat for $75.

“I guess I’ll
buy this, then,” I squeaked semi-merrily, like someone who just won the jackpot in Vegas
after only playing one dollar twice.

“Oooh,
sorry, that just went on sale.” He frowned, as if I was trying to trade in counterfeit
chips in Vegas after I thought I won the jackpot.“That means R-E-Icing-on-the-cake would not
be applicable in this instance.”

Dammit.Story of my life.Every time I try to pay full price, someone
forces me to pay less.

I searched in
vain for more full price items.The only
thing I could find was a kayak.

“Would I be
eligible with the kayak?” I whimpered.

“No.A kayak is not considered clothing.In that case, we would offer you kayak
cleaning service, plus we would be happy to clean whatever else is around,
like, say, your entire garage.”

I smiled and
got out my credit card.One swipe and $1400
later, I was the proud owner of a new kayak.

I knew just
where I would store it:in the
kitchen.Then next week I plan to move
it to the bathroom, and then the study, and finally, the storage room.This new venture of mine will pay off after only four weeks. Icing on the cake, indeed.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Backstory:The Husband plays basketball on Sunday
mornings.This particular Sunday, Tall
was invited to a laser tag birthday party, which meant that I had to take Short
with me to drop off Tall.Which is fine,
except that the laser tag place is far away, so I did not feel like going all
the way home and then all the way back, nor did I feel like buying a gazillion
tokens for Short to play video games.Luckily, there was an REI next door.

Short and I
walk into REI to “have a quick look,” which translates into him suddenly
wanting to take up kayaking and me wanting to find a cute skirt on sale.I have not been in REI in a long time (okay,
maybe ever) so I am soaking in the vibe of all things REI.This place looks like a cross between LLBean
and Dick’s Sporting Goods.I am
magnetically drawn to a rack marked “Clearance.”

“Wow, look
at this cute fleece jacket!” I say to myself, but Short thinks I am talking to
him.

“You should
get it, Mommy,” he nods enthusiastically.

I glance at
the price tag.Regular price:$220.Sale price:$181.For a fleece jacket?!?That looks like it is from Target and should
cost $30?I look around for a salesgirl,
as the tag must be mismarked.

“Yep.That’s right!Can you believe it?That is
almost $40 off!What an unbelievable
sale!”

It’s
unbelievable all right.

Undaunted, I
soldier on.I find a darling
long-sleeved t-shirt to wear around the house.There is a fun design of little skiers on the front.

“How much
does it cost?” inquires Short, as he notices me holding the t-shirt up to the
mirror.I take a deep breath and look at
the tag.Original price:$165.New price:$109.For a t-shirt?!That will fall apart in three months?

I am
flabbergasted.Socks cost $40.Skirts are $120.I check the labels:cotton and Lycra.Nope, no gold.

I don’t mind
paying Macy’s or Nordstrom $100 for a cashmere sweater that looks like it cost
$100.What I really love is getting it
on sale for $65 and having it still look like it cost $100.What I have a huge problem with is buying
something that actually looks cheaper than
it is.

It’s like
REI is an upside Target, with expensive prices on cheap stuff instead of cheap
prices on expensive stuff.

My brain
flashes back to a few Christmases ago when The Husband and I gave my sister
Oakley a $75 gift card.She seemed very
happy at the time, but now I realize she could not afford to buy a t-shirt with
that, even on clearance.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

“Pinecones!”
she exclaims exuberantly.“Scoop them up—you
can make a wreath!”

I do as I am
told, and now I have a big box of dusty pinecones in my basement.They have been there for three years on the
off chance that I will buy some silver spray paint and get to work.

“MOV, buy that
label maker,” she whispers the next time we are at Target.“You can label the shelves of all your
cabinets and the linen closet especially.Sheets, pillows, laundry detergent—you know, so your husband will put
things back in the right spot?”

I dutifully
put the label maker into the cart.Later
when I get home, the label maker languishes in a bag near the pinecones.

“She won’t
use you either!” a Pine Cone laughs at Label Maker.Label Maker responds hopefully, “That’s not
true, she did at least get out the instruction book.”

“Don’t throw
those seashells away!” my internal Martha screeches the next week when I am out
in the garage looking for some light bulbs.I have just picked up a bin of seashells, debating whether to throw them
away or donate them.We had collected them
on a beach vacation five years ago with the intention of buying a glass
lamp and filling it with the shells.

“So the lamp
thing didn’t exactly work out.Who
cares?You could still get a nice mirror at a
thrift store for about ten bucks and glue gun the shells to the perimeter,
and then add some decorative grosgrain ribbon around the trim.It will be easy!”

I
agree.It does sound easy.And I have been meaning to buy a glue gun.And grosgrain ribbon.

“By the way,
not to be bossy or anything, but you should really keep light bulbs in the house,
not the garage.Maybe on a shelf in the
linen closet.Labeled.”

She’s always
there, reminding me that things will be easy or that they should be glue gunned
or spray painted or ribboned or labeled.

“I
know, MOV! Let’s string together popcorn and
dried cranberries!” she bellowed at Christmas.“Why don’t you needlepoint your own ornaments!And it’s easy to embroider your monogram on
your apron and some small pillows!You
could make hundreds of custom orders and sell them on etsy!Let’s do it!”

I like the
idea of stringing popcorn.I buy the
special string. And who wouldn’t want
their initials monogramed on their apron or a small pillow?Of course I would love to make some extra
money on etsy selling these simple and not at all time-consuming crafts.

This
morning, I accidentally chip a plate as I am washing it.As I hold it up to assess the damage, I
notice a hairline crack spreading across the radius of the plate.It clearly belongs in the trash.

“Nooooo!”
she screams, blocking me from getting to the trash can.“You can break that plate all the way and use
the pieces to make mosaics!”

Monday, January 7, 2013

Short asks
me for a piece of paper.The next thing
you know, he is meticulously writing out some sort of special note and affixing
the finished product to the sacred place of honor in our home:the refrigerator door.The note reads:

“Short’s
Lucky Numbers:15, 25, 8, 32, 12, 4.”

I recognize
this information, as the numbers were copied directly from the slip of paper in
his fortune cookie from the Chinese take-out we finished mere moments ago.Not sure why he couldn’t grab a magnet and
stick the fortune itself right up there instead of having to spend the time
re-writing it.

“Because I
don’t want Tall to think they are his
numbers, or Pop or you to think they are your
numbers!They are my lucky numbers,” he explains
patiently.Then he continues:“I am so glad I know them now.”

I have to
suppress a smile.He somehow thinks that
whoever packed up his sticky rice and sweet and sour beef also happens to hold
the keys to his future, via important lucky numbers.

“Mommy, how
old were you when you found out your lucky numbers?”

I am
realizing that six-year-olds take the information dispensed to them from
whatever source, reputable or not, without question.Teacher says not to run in the hall, so that
must be a fact.You cannot have dessert
unless you eat most of your broccoli first:indisputable fact.Santa comes
down the chimney, even if you do not have a fireplace?Accepted fact.Chinese restaurant bestows your special
numbers to you?Now you commit them to
memory, as they are a new and crucial fact of your life.

The next day
we are driving and Short notices the speed limit sign.

“Mommy!Did you see that?My number:25!On the sign!Look!My
lucky number!”He is bouncing in the
booster seat.“It’s happening already,
this is so great!”

I am not
sure exactly what is happening, except that I was going 35 and now I tap on the
breaks to stay within the speed limit.

At the dry
cleaners later, the clerk calls my number:“I can help number 32, 32 please?”

Short is tugging
at my elbow insistently.“Mommy!Did you hear that?My lucky number!”

This
continues on in any situation we encounter over the next several days:how many cars are parked in a row (4), how
many eggs in the dozen we just bought (12), or how many gallons it takes to
fill up my car (15).Lucky numbers
abound.

I want to
set him straight, to tell him that just because someone says something to him (“These
are your lucky numbers”) does not make it true.How can children believe anything without questioning it?At what age do we get savvy and cynical and
start to question the so-called “facts” as subjective?

Now we are
at the department store, as I need to buy some eye cream.The clerk tells me about the latest miracle
cream and how it erases fine lines quickly.

“If you use
this twice a day, you will see dramatic results in just two weeks,” she says,
her college-age skin looking like it will never need eye-cream.“It is fabulous, revolutionary!You should get it, it will make you look 10
years younger.”

I nod at
her.Eye cream.Revolutionary.Ten years younger.

“And we are
having a sale!The eye cream is 25% off,
just for today.This must be your lucky
day.”

I have never
heard of this cream nor this brand, but the salesgirl is telling me it
works.Who am to argue?I buy the eye cream. Apparently, this must be my lucky day.

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Don’t get me
wrong:I love The Husband.It’s just … yes, I’ll admit it, I do think
about my first love sometimes, especially this time of year. In fact, if you must know, my first love stopped by the house
earlier today.

When I invited
my first love into the kitchen, it was exactly like old times—sweet!I smile constantly to even think about being near
my first love.My first love is so, well,
addictive.

Then, just
like that, my first love was gone.My
first love managed to take all my self-control and self-esteem.Oh, Sugar, my love!Come back to me!How can things be over that fast?That’s right:I ate an entire bag of over-priced gourmet cinnamon
gummy hearts in less than one hour.Pure sugar, expensive and delicious, my lifelong obsession.

Oh, they
were so good!I could not just eat one
or two or twelve … I had to have all.

Now my tummy
is sick, sick, sick.The Husband just
got home from work and asked why I was feeling ill, clutching my intestines as
if I might throw up at any moment.My
first love caused me to lie to my beloved spouse of a dozen years:“Sweetie, it must be the flu!”

But then. Evidence.He found the empty candy bag in the trash and
walked into the living room where I had been lying on the couch basking in his
sympathy.

“You don’t
have the flu!” he laughed while holding the bag up for my inspection.“You just ate too much sugar.This always happens. You have no will power. Why do you even buy these?”

My brain
flashes back to that day long, long ago (okay, yesterday) when I was working at
the high-end kitchen store.My boss told
me to move the left-over Christmas stuff to the sale table and put out the
items for our next holiday.

“Wait—this bag
says Valentine’s!” The Husband interrupts my important career reflections.“Does the high-end kitchen store already have
Valentine’s stuff?It’s only January
second!”

I groan,
partly because he is right—we are super late this year for putting the
Valentine’s merchandise out—and partly because the sugar is affecting all my
internal organs including my teeth.

“I think I
feel a new cavity coming on.”It is my one
last stab at sympathy.Not only does it
not have its desired effect, but my new pronouncement garners fresh disdain.

“Serves you
right!What were you thinking eating all
those gummy hearts?”